


Lifetimes apart

by InGuiseOfCandles (inguiseofcandles)



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-13
Updated: 2013-10-13
Packaged: 2017-12-29 07:24:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1002595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inguiseofcandles/pseuds/InGuiseOfCandles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>tumblr prompt: reincarnation fic where enjolras and grantaire keep missing each other or the conditions arent right for them to be together. like, they meet when one of them is married already and doesn’t want to leave their spouse, one of them is old and the other is young, they live in different countries and meet by chance in an airport or on a plane and have to part ways, one of them is in an accident and the other is the paramedic who can’t save him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lifetimes apart

_A smile half formed on thin lips. He couldn’t see who it was, but it chased away his doubt. So why was he in pain?_

Grantaire walked easily through the crowded streets clutching the back of his mother’s shirt to stay close, while he watched the faces that passed by. There was the baker who waved just like every evening, there was that one woman who looked very pretty but very sad as she talked to strange men and there was the young girl with bright curls who chased after a boy who flushed red at her touch.

Grantaire suddenly stopped, letting go of his mother’s shirt in favour of walking towards a stranger who looked more familiar then anyone he had ever seen on his way home. The man smiled down sadly as the child raised his arms in a silent request.

Suddenly clinging to the stranger’s warm chest Grantaire cried openly and loudly as all small children do, through he could not understand why.

Hands were pulling him away from the stranger and all the child could feel was fear; though this fear was not caused by the stranger but the familiar hands of his mother.

Holding on tighter to the man Grantaire screamed and kicked until his mother let go, she stood close and spoke quietly with the man whose smile was still so sad. Tugging on the golden curls the child looked up with wet eyes and red cheeks only for the sad smile to remain. Frowning he tugged again only to have his hand taken by his mother as she apologised and once again tried to lift the child from the man’s arms.

Releasing his grip on the boy Enjolras moved to step away before Grantaire was able to wrap his tiny arms around his neck once more. Suddenly held tightly by his mother Grantaire started to cry and reached out once more.

“No ’Jo’ras” the child called after the retreating man who froze at his words, one more sad smile forming on the man’s lips before he disappeared amongst the familiar faces of the street and the child was left weeping in his frightened mothers tight grip.       

_Every time it was more of the same, each lifetime brought them no closer._

\---

_A hand held his. He wasn’t sure who it was but it felt right, warm and comforting. So why did he feel like crying?_

Curling up beneath the thick blankets Enjolras tried to ignore the fact that his hand felt empty as a soft voice could be heard drifting through the open doorway. A voice that felt wrong; too gentle, too feminine.

“Sweetheart?” that voice called out to him and it felt _wrong_.

Shifting slowly Enjolras tried his best to smile over the covers towards the amused woman leaning over to look around the doorframe towards the bed, laughing as she walked fully into the room. _Too gentle, too feminine_ ; a small voice supplied again.

She tried to look stern as she stared down at the cocooned blond but it gave way to another laugh as he ducked back below the covers. Sitting gingerly on the bed “are you not well?” she asked gently. Always too gentle.

Before he could reply Enjolras found fingers had crawled under the covers to dance in his hair. Deciding to shake his head rather than reply Enjolras was not sure if he was answering or trying to dislodge the delicate hands from his curls.

Humming soothingly she excused herself to prepare breakfast but not before placing a tender kiss upon his forehead with lips far too soft, too delicate.

_Wrong, wrong, wrong._

His chest felt heavy with guilt as he watched her leave their shared room.  He loved her, he truly did. But not in the way she loved him.

He could hear the children as they talked through breakfast and his guilt settled deeper between his lungs making it hard to breathe.

Enjolras has had many mornings like this, were his dreams fill his every thought and the light hair of his wife didn’t seem right on the pillow beside his. But sill he stayed and fought down the rising urge to find the young man he sees in his sleep. Refuses to destroy the comfortable life he was handed after his parents finally managed to douse the fire that burned within him for change.

Refused to give in to the knowledge that somewhere a young man had dreams of golden curls and a warm hand just as Enjolras had dreams of bright blue eyes and an easy grin.

_Every time it was more of the same, each lifetime brought them no closer._

\---

_Golden curls fell around a gentle face. They reminded the artist of the sun.  So why did he feel so cold?_

Grantaire rushed through the airport already late for his flight back home to France, dragging his heavy luggage and tearing through his bag to find the plane ticket.

Glancing up Grantaire realised he was hopelessly lost. Pulling harshly on his bags the artist all but threw his possessions to the ground before he caught sight of colour. So much colour.

Turning sharply he saw it was a man dressed in red, with hair so gold it will take him hours to find the right shade when Grantaire finally has the time to paint again; though he never does find the right colour.

Running towards the blond Grantaire for once does not care that his accent is thick as he calls out trying to get the man’s attention.

_Blue_ , Grantaire inhales sharply when he is finally able to see the man’s eyes; eyes that quickly changed from an irritated glare to something gentler and surprised at the sight of the Frenchmen.

“Your name?” Grantaire asked, accent once again thick as the words fell from his tongue. Filled with regret at not having practiced more and wishing English rolled off of his tongue as gracefully as his French, the artist stared expectantly.

“Enjolras” the man answered reaching out a hand to shake. Grantaire wanted nothing more than to test the name out for himself, to feel the word heavy on his tongue but instead replied with his own name and gripped the hand warmly with a smile. It felt right and when Enjolras pulled his hand away hesitantly Grantaire wanted nothing more than to grab it again and demand he never let go.

Muttering something about being late Enjolras had to force himself to walk away with his bags in hand, though every step felt like walking on broken glass.

Grantaire stared after the blond before finally wondering back towards his discarded bags. He missed his flight but it didn’t matter. The blond was already gone and the artist stood alone with his bags scattered around him and a new emptiness in his chest.

Laughing bitterly to himself when he realised he was never going to be able to get the colour of Enjolras’ eyes right, though that does not mean he will not spend the rest of his life trying.

_Every time it was more of the same, each lifetime brought them no closer._

\---

_Pain. All he could feel was pain as that hand fell away from his. For once he didn’t question why it hurt._

Enjolras was not on duty that night but instead had been out with friends to relax for the weekend; though they would argue he did not know the meaning of the word.

He did not hear the beginning of the fight but he was currently leaning over the end result of the encounter. As a trained paramedic Enjolras felt it was his responsibility to help and had rushed over at the screams of terrified patrons and a shout for someone to call for help. At first he had been able to remain professional but that had been until he saw the man’s face.

Enjolras could feel his heart stop and panic began to flood through him, rising like the tides and swirling through his mind. The panic worsened as the man’s eyes met his, the recognition there was enough but when he heard his name fall along with a gasp of pain from the wine stained lips of a man he should not know the name of Enjolras could not stop the sob that pulled itself from his chest and crawled from his throat. Enjolras panicked further as he found he was unable to slow the blood flow from the stab wound to Grantaire’s chest and sobbed in relief as more paramedics arrived and kneeled down beside the artist.

Enjolras was sure he could feel Grantaire’s pain within his own chest and reached blindly for the others hand. Only slightly reassured by the pressure of the other man’s hand holding tightly onto his own.

Climbing into the back of the ambulance, leaving his confused and worried friends behind, Enjolras refused to let go and cried harder as he felt the others grip slacken.

His friends found an inconsolable Enjolras within the arms of one of his co-workers when they arrived at the hospital. They were more than a little frightened at his wails of “not again” and “it’s not fair” and they all assumed he was stricken by the loss of another patient.

Though in reality Enjolras was talking about the time they had died together.

Once again he had felt the artist die within his grasp only this time he was unable to follow.

_Every time it was more of the same, each lifetime brought them no closer._

\---

_Red. All he could see was red as the flag was raised above their heads, to die was their choice. They were free for the first time._

Grantaire lived his life jumping at any flash of red or gold he saw.

Drowning each failed attempt at spotting his Apollo in the cheapest wines he could find and drawing the lines and angles of a face he had long ago memorised in his dreams; drawing regretful half smiles and soft curls over and over.

Walking silently through the city streets Grantaire scolded himself every time he spun around only to see that the red belonged to the dress of a young woman or something equality as disheartening.  Each and every time he told himself it was useless, that he would only be disappointed and not to bother. But there was always a ‘what if’.

What if the one time he didn’t look it had been his Apollo?

Catching sight of red and gold once again the artist turned and for the first time is flooded with shock rather than disappointment. 

Turning more fully he took off after the blond as he walked down the other side of the street. Tripping up onto the footpath Grantaire was filled with dread at the thought of his Apollo slipping through his fingers once again as he reached for the red sleeve.

To his horror he had missed, but was soon filled with relief as a pale hand caught his own.

“Apollo” Grantaire said without thinking and could feel his face turning red when fingers where suddenly laced with his and he looked up disbelieving when the blond muttered “I am sure I told you to stop calling me that.” 

He couldn’t help but smile when for the first time the smile he saw upon Enjolras’ face was more than the half formed ones he remembered from his dreams.

_This time it was different, this time they had each other._


End file.
